


The End of the World to Your Town

by novelized



Category: Rocketman (2019)
Genre: Drinking, Drug Use, M/M, bernie wanting to be there for elton, domestic abuse, elton's messy spiral, unrequited feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-05-20 11:04:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19375429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novelized/pseuds/novelized
Summary: Bernie almost turns to go.But there’s something that keeps him going, that drives him forward, determination, maybe, or a single unbidden thought: for Elton, he’d do this for Elton. He’d do anything for Elton.It’s that, of course, that makes him stay.





	The End of the World to Your Town

He’s alone tonight. For this, he has to be. The heat in here is crushing, sticky and heavy, but he presses on; averts his eyes at the door, like maybe the bouncer will see through him, kick him out. He’s allowed to be here, in every technical sense. He feels like a complete fraud.

There are bodies: so many bodies. It’s almost unbelievable. “You’ve got thousands of places,” Elton had said once, “and we’ve got—” Started ticking them off on his fingers. Bernie had felt terrible, personally responsible, and so he’d interrupted, said, “Joke’s on them, anyway, your concerts are close enough and they’re all _paying_ to be let in—” and Elton had laughed, loud and delighted, and let the subject drop.

But he wasn’t wrong.

He wonders if any of Elton’s boys are here. If they’d recognize him. From stories, at least. His name.

The idea makes his breath stop. He almost turns to go.

But there’s something—something that keeps him going, that drives him forward, determination, maybe, or a single unbidden thought: for Elton, he’d do this for Elton.

He’d do anything for Elton.

It’s that, of course, that makes him stay.

***

Their friendship was fast, and fun, and frenetic, right from the start; it was predestined, he’d thought, it _had_ to be. The way they worked together. The magic they created. That couldn’t have been a coincidence.

Bernie said he didn’t believe in coincidence. Elton said, drunkenly, he only believed in _them._

He’d recognized that it was bound to happen—since finding out he was _that way_ , or the relaxed set of his shoulders once it was out there and Bernie had stayed put; at the way they’d stumbled out of the pub that night, bombed on bottom-shelf whiskey and exhilaration, Elton’s arm tucked around his waist, holding him steady: a friendly hold. A more-than-friendly hold. The slow tug of his smile. The quiet lean-in. 

He didn’t care, in the grand scheme of things. Not really. He’d considered it, for a second. 

But it wouldn’t have been honest. It wouldn’t have been right.

Elton had nodded, accepting. They’d laughed. They’d moved on. Both of them, he’d thought, had moved on.

(As it turned out: when it came to Elton, Bernie wasn’t always right.)

***

He sidles up to the bar, and silently marvels: this must be what it’s like for women, all the time. Hands brushing against him. Long, lingering looks. He wishes he’d worn a hat.

The music is pounding, the sort that pulses through his body, not his style, normally, but tonight—needed. The bartender has to practically shout to clear it, and Bernie doesn’t miss the way his eyes dip when he asks him what he wants to drink. 

“Whiskey,” Bernie calls back, holds up two fingers. “Double. Please.”

It appears within a minute. Bernie throws it back within seconds.

The bartender studies him, either impressed or curious; he can’t tell the difference.

One more, Bernie signals, his voice lost in the shuffle. But of course he adds another _please._

***

Bernie hadn’t gone to university—he’d dropped out of school early, actually, when he’d discovered it was useless, when he’d realized there was nothing they could offer him in pursuit of things that mattered—but he imagined this was close enough: bunked up in Elton’s old room, eating food that someone else prepared, elbowing over leg space, poring over crumpled notebook paper, sometimes jolting awake mid-dream with a particularly clever idea.

Elton bumbled around the house in his underwear and ate a lot of biscuits, back then. Bernie supposed that was a specific kind of uni student, too.

They would often talk late into the night, as if they hadn’t just spent all day together. Being with Elton was like that, always: they never ran out of things to say. 

Sometimes one of them would drift off mid-sentence. Elton would be telling a story, low enough to not disturb his mum—(she’d come storming in, sometimes, when the two of them were too loud and laughing, and Bernie had noticed that she’d always held her gaze aloft, turned away against something she apparently didn’t want to see)—and Bernie would be listening contently, until his eyelids grew heavy, until he woke hours later, pooled in morning sunlight, Elton’s breath steady and even from the bed beside him.

Sometimes, Elton’s hand would dangle over the side, towards Bernie, like it’d slipped. Or like he’d been reaching for him. Awake or unconscious; Bernie never brought himself to ask.

Bernie has slept at Elton’s place, since. He’s noticed: his breathing doesn’t sound steady or even, anymore.

That might’ve been the last time he’d had a good night’s sleep, all those years ago. How incredibly sad was that.

***

Bernie shifts, and lets his eyes wander. There’s a lot to take in. Men, jostling for room at the bar. Men, crowding together on the dance floor. Men in long lines at the bathrooms, and maybe not to take a leak. Bernie has been to his fair share of Elton’s parties before. When an invite had slipped past Reid, when Elton would drunkenly call him from the master bath and Bernie would go, no matter the time, of course he’d go. None of this should surprise him.

It’s different, without Elton here. Without Elton he is—

Acting on his own accord.

***

The weekend after—

The night at the Troubadour, Bernie had always considered it. Of everything—Neil Diamond, there to observe; meeting a breathtakingly gorgeous girl in the balcony; the party at Mama Cass’s, exclusive and enticing and both of them _invited_ ; going home with the gorgeous girl, her wanting him, her choosing him—of all of it, the most vivid part: Elton at the piano. Elton’s voice, strong and clear. The electricity that surged through the room when he’d sang their words, that first time, the spark that ignited it all. That was what he remembered the most.

He often wondered if Elton’d say the same.

Because they’d spent a lot of time apart on that trip. Because the gorgeous girl had wanted to show him all the landmarks. Of Los Angeles. Of her own. Because they’d had a packed schedule and Ray was overambitious, always, and a little neurotic about their time. Because they weren’t alone together until the weekend after, a momentary reprieve at the hotel, curtains thrown open, warm California air blowing in. Bernie had spent fifteen minutes in the shower, washing sand out of every crevice. Elton was trying on some garish sunglasses and studying his reflection in the mirror.

“Going to start wearing them at night, are you?” Bernie asked, reentering the room with a towel wrapped around his waist. He started poking around for a shirt. “Really leaning into this rockstar life, then.”

“They were a gift,” Elton said on an eyeroll, but he slid the glasses off nevertheless. He messed with his fringe and added casually, like an afterthought, “From John Reid.”

Bernie had met John Reid. Music management; sharp dresser. Talked pleasantly and close, like he’d known the pair for years. “Bit early to be buying presents, isn’t it?”

“I dunno,” Elton said coyly, twisting the sunglasses in his hands. “Is it really that early if you’ve already shagged?” 

He paused. Met Bernie’s gaze in the reflection. Bernie stared back at him, just a touch of disbelief. As far as he knew, Elton hadn’t done any of it, shagged or been shagged, but Elton wasn’t laughing, wasn’t making into a joke; he looked—unsure. Unsure what Bernie’s reaction would be. Or maybe: unsure what he wanted Bernie’s reaction to be.

After a moment, Bernie allowed himself a grin. “You serious? And I’m just now finding out?”

“Yeah, well, you were… preoccupied,” Elton said, his neck gone faintly pink. He picked up the flannel Bernie’d been searching for and tossed it at him then busied himself, again, in the mirror.

Bernie shrugged the shirt on. Started with the buttons. “And?” he asked, which was a question he would’ve asked any of his friends. No matter who they’d slept with. “How was it?”

The look that Elton gave him, then—

Like he—

It was not the first time he’d gotten that look from Elton. He’d doubted it would be the last.

“A lady doesn’t kiss and tell,” Elton said, but his voice was tight, and he was smiling. 

He remembered that vividly too.

***

After a third drink, Bernie finds his feet. Liquid courage. He abandons the glass at the bar and edges towards the dance floor. He’s not a confident dancer on a good day, so he’s really out of his depth here. It doesn’t seem to matter. The crowds part. He’s immediately swallowed in.

He keeps his eyes down, at first, and makes sure not to step on any toes. The song that’s currently thumping from the speakers doesn’t have lyrics, so he can’t get lost in them. Probably for the better.

And then: A hand on his hip. Intentional, but unassuming. Bernie lifts his gaze. The man smiles at him, pulls him closer. He’s good-looking, slightly older, dressed well enough—though he doesn’t know what he’s inspecting for, it’s not like he’s got a checklist. 

The man leans in. His breath warm, right above his ear. “What’s a guy like you,” he starts, a line, well-rehearsed in advance, but a hand that chases after, fingers curled light around his neck, right at his pulse, “doing in a place like _this_?”

It’s meant to be cute, he’s sure. 

It’s a good fucking question.

***

Elton had expensive taste. John Reid had _more_ expensive taste, and a much smaller wallet, but Elton was happy—beyond happy, tripping over himself practically—to provide. That was why they’d had the wine, a classic, a _vintage_ , shipped directly from France, and why Elton was laughing hysterically while Bernie was attacking it with a flimsy corkscrew opener. “John’s going to _murder_ us,” Elton gasped out; they were already one bottle in and buzzing, piano long forgotten, bundle of lyrics tossed aside.

“Did John pay for this himself, then?” Bernie asked, and with a grunt the cork flew free. He grinned victoriously and took a swig straight from the bottle, passed it over.

(As it turned out, very expensive wine tasted no different than the corner store wine they’d been drinking before.)

Elton frowned. “Well, no.”

“Imagine that.”

“You’re being a mean drunk, Bernie,” Elton said, but not in a way that indicated he was upset about it. More fascinated. “That’s meant to be my job.” 

“No,” Bernie said back, and stretched out along the sofa. “You’re meant to be the dramatic drunk. Throwing fits, demanding servitude, that sort of thing.”

Elton gasped again, and shoved Bernie hard enough that his elbow slipped from the armrest. “Mean,” Elton repeated. 

Bernie resituated; his limbs felt heavy, but pleasantly so. It had been a long time since the two of them had been alone, like this. More often than not Elton was with John, swept to highbrow art galleries, to hard-to-get-in restaurants, to foreign cities for a night. To Elton’s bedroom, likely, if the bruises on his neck were any indication.

“Or,” Bernie said, and lifted his eyebrows, “you’re a randy drunk.”

“Jesus, Bernie! I’m plying you with wine more often.” 

They didn’t talk about it much; they spent a lot of time not talking about it. On the nights that he’d stayed at Elton’s—too tired to drive home, and Elton always a welcoming host—he’d heard them, sometimes. From several rooms away. They were _loud._ In the mornings after: Bernie, politely reticent. Elton dreamily drinking coffee. John already busy with work.

“What sorts of things do you like?” Bernie asked, then. A little cheeky. But also: they _could_ talk about that, if they wanted to. It didn’t have to be strange just because it was—different. Alcohol gave them that freedom. And he liked the way Elton was looking at him, suddenly caught off guard.

Elton was not often caught off guard.

“How do you mean?” he asked, and swallowed drily.

“You know. You _know._ I mean, I like it when—when girls ask you, can they?” He gestured downwards, vaguely. “As if anyone’d ever say no. Come on, your turn. What do you like?”

Elton was silent for a long moment, the overpriced wine forgotten. “I guess I just like to be wanted,” he said, and very resolutely looked away.

***

The man must’ve sensed his disinterest; within seconds he’d disappeared. There were others, after him, but Bernie had a hard time faking it, had a hard time keeping up. Hands and mouths and bodies pressing. This isn’t his scene.

(He’s doing this for Elton, he reminds himself—of course it’s for Elton; what, in his life, hadn’t been—?)

He retreats back to the bar. There, at least, he knows how to hold himself. The bartender gives him a knowing smile and pours a shot without asking. He throws it back, fire in his stomach, leans an elbow on the wood.

Someone picks his shotglass up. Someone—unaggressive. Kind eyes and shaggy hair, like Elton used to have. He grins at Bernie, inspects the glass like he’s surprised to find it empty. “Buy you another?” he offers, no tricks, no gimmicks.

Bernie, surprising himself, agrees.

***

The first line was a revelation.

That was what Elton said about it, anyway, afterwards, his voice dreamlike and hazy, tucked away on the phone. He hadn’t seen Elton in ages, it felt like, each of them busy: Bernie with the ranch, Elton with—well. Whatever he got up to. But they still made time to talk. Every Sunday, at least, and always just before lunch. “Seriously, Bernie,” Elton said, for the third or fourth time, “it was amazing. I transformed. I saw everything with fresh eyes, I could’ve kept going for hours. Never before have I felt such _clarity._ ”

“Maybe you ought to try writing the lyrics, then,” Bernie offered, but Elton didn’t laugh.

Bernie had nothing against coke, on principle. Tried and enjoyed it himself, a number of times. But Elton was—

Elton did things big.

Elton was all or nothing.

“Just be careful, yeah?” Bernie said, and Elton huffed out a laugh. 

“God, Bernie,” he said; didn’t elaborate. “If you only fucking knew.”

***

They talk. The music’s still loud; the guy has to lean in, but he doesn’t press his lips against Bernie’s ear, doesn’t linger. He’s friendly, but not too friendly. He smells like cigarettes and mint.

Bernie can hardly remember what they talk about. The whiskey catches up to him; his nerves catch up to him. But also—

It’s easier, four drinks in, to pretend to be—what? Bold? _That way?_

The guy grins at him again. “You okay there?”

“Yes,” Bernie says. Of course he is. Of course he’s not. He looks at the guy, draws everything in. Just goes for it. “Do you want to go back to your place?”

***

And then there were the bruises.

Not the mouth-shaped neck bruises of yesterday. Not the fun sort. They were the ugly sort that Elton tried to hide under gaudy eyeglasses, stupid hats. Not that he was _covered_ in them, no, but: Bernie would see him before a show sometimes. Pulling at a split lip in the mirror. Like that might make it go away.

Sometimes John had them too. An open cut on his forehead, or faint markings along his jaw.

Bernie wondered about the bruises.

He tried to bring it up, once. Followed him to his dressing room, right after the concert, before John had time to make it back. Closed the door and leaned against it while Elton towel-dried the sweat from his face, uncovered a bloom of purple hue in the process.

“Ran into a doorknob,” Elton said listlessly, when he noticed Bernie staring. Practiced, effortless. That might’ve been the worst part.

“Doorknob named Reid?”

Elton smiled wryly and slid the glasses back on his face. “You know what they say,” he said, in a falsely cheerful voice. Bernie didn’t miss the snuffbox in his fist. “All’s fair in love and war.”

They said that, sure.

Bernie never saw how it applied.

***

He doesn’t help him into the passenger seat, which is good. Doesn’t even open the door. Just revolves around the truck, gets in, waits for Bernie. His hands are large, bracing the steering wheel. He turns the radio down but not off, and doesn’t buckle his seatbelt. Bernie wonders if that’s a power move. If he’s worth showing off for.

“So,” the guy says, because of course they can’t sit in silence. Shifts the truck into gear. “You’re from—England?”

Bernie nods, wipes his palms against his pants. It’s not particularly hot outside. He’s sweating profusely. “Pinner,” he says, and then, feeling exposed: “London.”

He nods. “And what brought you out here?”

Bernie shifts in his seat. Wonders if it’d be all right to roll the window down. “A friend,” he says, and then changes his mind again. “Work. Mostly work.”

“What do you do?”

Bernie looks at the radio. It’s not one of theirs, but it could’ve been—what was the statistic? Every fifteen minutes? _I write songs for Elton John_ , he thinks about telling him. Wonders if he’d believe him. Wonders if it’d help.

“I own a ranch,” Bernie says instead. He leans his head against the window. The glass is cool and welcome on his clammy skin. “I’ve got horses.”

The guy grins at Bernie from the driver’s seat. “Right on,” he says, and pulls into a spot.

***

“Why can’t we just—”

Bernie needed a break. They both desperately needed a break. 

“—both of us, disappear? Together?”

Elton’s eyes were unfocused. It was hard to tell if he was listening. Or just—incapacitated. Unreachable; beyond.

But it wasn’t so hard to imagine—the two of them at the ranch. Eating lazy breakfasts, lounging by the fire, writing songs like they used to write songs: a little feverish, sure, but deliberate. No one to please but themselves. Sleeping late and talking loud and laughing, god, they’d used to laugh a lot.

When was the last time Bernie had laughed with Elton?

When was the last time Elton had laughed at all?

***

Three steps inside the foyer and they’re kissing: messy and heated, the guy’s hands braced low against his waist. He’s taller than Bernie, which isn’t a first, but he’s—taking charge, almost, which is. Crowds him against the doorway, licks into his mouth.

There’s nothing unpleasant about kissing. About the way he nips at Bernie’s bottom lip, hums against his jaw.

He can do this.

It’s what he’d set out to do.

“Bed?” Bernie asks, already breathing hard, more confident than he feels, and the guy nods and pulls him through a darkened hallway, Bernie’s fingers threaded through his, fumbles into a shoebox of a bedroom, and then: kissing again. Tongue and teeth and then his hands, tugging at Bernie’s shirt, promptly untucked, slipping under, touching skin. Bernie arches away from him, by habit, then apologizes by slanting in.

It hits him, then, that he hadn’t even learned this guy’s name.

No matter, he thought, for the means to an end.

***

Elton was—not himself.

Maybe that wasn’t fair. Maybe he was himself, at that point. But he certainly wasn’t the Elton he’d known. He certainly wasn’t Reggie.

The air between them was thick enough to choke on. Elton was four drinks in, at least; who knew what else he’d consumed. His hand curled so tightly around his glass that his knuckles were white. Glaring at Bernie through his tinted sunglasses.

He never used to look at Bernie like that.

How the times had changed.

“Don’t know why you even bothered coming,” he said, sleek. Cruel. “If you’re just going to—”

“You called me,” Bernie interrupted. That was their cycle, less frequent now, but had been for years : the phone rang. Bernie dropped everything. Bernie drove to Elton. Bernie cleaned up the mess. “You called me, and _asked_ me to come.”

Elton’s mess was so large, that time. He didn’t know where to start. 

“Well,” Elton said bitterly, “I certainly didn’t ask you to come _lecture_ me. Just join the fucking party, Bernie. Have a drink. Get fucked. God knows you could use it. Do you even remember how to have a good time?” 

Bernie sat back on his knees. “Is this what you call it? Having a good time?”

Elton picked up his glass—for a wild second, Bernie thought he was going to chuck it at him—and took another spiteful drink. “Get out of my fucking house, then,” he spat, his free hand pointing off-kilter at the door.

Bernie stood. He grabbed the bottle of vodka, near empty, turned it in his hands. “D’you remember, Reg,” he said carefully, “that once upon a time you said you only believed in us?”

He didn’t look back at him. There was no point. Instead, Bernie did what he’d been putting off doing for quite some time: he left.

He wanted the old Elton back. God, he wanted him back.

***

He’s braced back on the mattress. The guy’s hands are skirting down his sides, rough and unfamiliar. Bernie winces when they hit his waistband, but doesn’t stop him. He knows what he’s doing.

(He doesn’t know what he’s doing.)

“Fuck,” the guy breathes out, captures Bernie’s mouth in another wet kiss; pops the button on his jeans open with no hesitation. This is—different.

This is what he’d wanted.

The guy readjusts to drag the zipper down, tooth by tooth; he’s hard against Bernie’s thigh.

Bernie looks down and swallows. He’s surprisingly hard too.

He could do this.

For Elton, he thinks. For Elton, for Elton—what wouldn’t he do, after all, for Elton—

***

Elton wasn’t high.

Or, maybe he was, but in that moment, he didn’t seem it—he was speaking clearly, looking at Bernie clearly, in a way he hadn’t looked at him in months. The old way. The familiar way. “I’m sorry,” he kept saying. They were alone, for once. Bernie’s heart was drumming hard inside his chest.

“I don’t know how it all happened, Bernie,” Elton said plaintively, “I just—I’ve been so _lonely—_ ”

(Hard to believe it was only three days ago—)

“I don’t have anyone,” Elton said.

“You’ve got me,” Bernie said.

Elton’s gaze fluttered over and he said softly, miserably, “No, Bernie, I don’t.”

Bernie was quiet.

Elton shifted onto his knees. Inched closer, reached for Bernie, took fistfuls of his jacket and pulled him in. Bernie didn’t stop him. “But I—” Elton said, eyes shining. “If I _did_ , Bern, I’d stop—I’d quit, for you, I’d be able to do that, if you could—if you’d ever—”

He wanted to give that to him.

Thought he could give that to him.

If he could just—

If he could learn _how_ —

***

“I’m sorry,” he says, and lifts the guy’s hands off of him. “I can’t.”

***

“I’m sorry,” he’d said, lifting Elton’s hands off of him. “I don’t know if I can—”

***

It’s a two mile walk back to the bar. Bernie’s silent, shoes scuffing along the sidewalk. His car’s exactly where he’d left it. Everything the same.

He gets in. Starts the familiar drive, along familiar windy roads. Could make this trip with his eyes closed.

He parks in the driveway. Unlocks the door with his key. Climbs the steps, on autopilot, softly opens the bedroom door.

The room is dark, a little musty; there’s an overturned bottle on Elton’s nightstand. Bernie rights it, carefully. Steps out of his shoes, slides under the blankets. Elton’s passed out; probably had been for hours. His glasses are crooked.

His breath is unsteady, uneven.

Bernie closes his eyes and tries to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> title is from Captain Fantastic and the Brown Dirt Cowboy, because i'm unoriginal and have been listening to it for days on end


End file.
